Date: Sun, 14 Feb 2010 08:02:39 +1100 From: John Roy Subject: A Trilogy (Suggest 'Beginnings' in Gay Male) This is my first submission to Nifty. I was encouraged by a Nifty author whose work I found inspiring. As my pieces are short, I have combined three true stories at different stages of my life. I'm a mature-age gay Australian and find Nifty an invaluable resource. I'd be glad to hear any comments or criticisms from readers. My email is johnrroy1@gmail.com. Each story is introduced briefly in turn. Yes, I was shy in my early years and this story describes my introduction to male bonding via the Boy Scouts. SHY START As a boy, I grew up in a small provincial city in Victoria, Australia, being born in the latter half of the Thirties. We were a church-going family, never missing a Sunday if we were not on holidays. There was never any talk in that atmosphere about the possibility of a boy loving another boy - it was outside the bounds of that narrow world. It never occurred to me to even try to conceptualise a sexual encounter with a guy - it was so alien to our local culture, especially in religious middle class families. I convinced myself that I was a regular guy wanting to take girls to dances, despite finding myself quite awkward in their company. In my sexual life, I was an early starter, jacking off in toilets before I was 11. It was a deliciously illicit act, but I found it hard to shake off the biblical admonition that it was 'sinful'. There was always something furtive about it all, a sense of a loss of control, a sense of defiling the body. It took me years to shake off that induced sense of guilt, and to finally see stimulation of myself as a celebration of my humanity. Of course, I was fascinated with the bodies of other boys, as well as those of men, looking at them surreptitiously in the changing rooms of our public swim baths. I found the hairy chests, dark bushes and large cocks of the older men a bit scary. Always, when pissing in a public toilet, I wanted like crazy to view the streaming cock of the guy on my left or right. However, I kept my eyes looking rigidly forward, shutting out any suggestion of a sideways glimpse. Self- inflicted torture! At school, I was outstanding academically, as well as being a very good sprinter in track and field. However, I was not particularly good at the glamour sports, cricket and football. Thus, it was inevitable that my first boyhood heroes were sporting guys. I just wanted to be close to them. I felt like putting my arms around them, but never did. I was fascinated when they told 'dirty yarns' and always had a nice feeling in my crotch. Our lives were fairly strictly supervised in the late 40's and early 50's, with our schoolteachers being quite severe, and with discipline being enforced at home. It was only in the freedom of the bush on occasional weekends with our local scout troop that we felt free to discuss our growing bodies and the nice feelings we had when touching them. I will try to re-create one such weekend - it turned out (although I did not know it at the time) to be my first intimate moment with a gay guy: We are pulling the wooden trek carts out of town along a gravel road. They are painted black and have large red wheels, denoting the colours of our scout troop. The carts are piled high with camping gear held down firmly with canvas tarpaulins. A patrol of six boys stands in the shafts of each trek cart. We are all of the sparse generation born during the Great Depression and before the Second World War. We still lead spartan lives and have known fear in expectation of the 'evil Japanese' invading our country. We have crouched and practised in backyard air raid shelters. On a fresh morning in late spring, about three years after the end of the War, all this is left behind us as we stride out, full of hope, into the countryside, relishing our freedom, our comradeship and the throwing off of daily routine. Myriads of parrots squabble and screech in the gum trees lining the road and strong eucalyptus aromas penetrate our nostrils. It is hard work pulling the carts up a hill and we bend to the task. When someone starts singing a trekking song, we all join in. Gradually, we leave the outskirts of the town behind and enter the bush. Wildflowers bloom in profusion on the rocky ground. After about two hours we arrive at the scout reserve and pull the carts through to the campsite area. Upon unloading, some of us walk deeper into the bush and select and cut down saplings to provide the two uprights and two horizontal ridge poles for each tent. Then, we thread a heavy ex-army tent over one ridge pole, place another about a foot above it and lash the two uprights with strong rope to the poles at either end. We place a canvas fly over the top ridge pole, to be stretched tight to keep out the rain and dew. After lifting the frame vertically into position, heavy rope cross guys are attached to secure the structure, with tent pegs being finally sunk into the rocky ground. As soon as the tent allotted to a given patrol is up, each member scrambles to secure the flattest and least rocky sleeping spot and to dig a hip-hole. We don't have sleeping bags or air mattresses, just using sets of rough grey army blankets joined at the bottom with large safety pins spread on a waterproof rubber groundsheet. Our kitbags serve as pillows. At the same time another group is digging latrines and setting up washstands, whereas others are preparing lunch. This is just bread, sausages and tomato sauce, followed by half-set jelly covered with runny burnt custard made from powdered milk. After the meal, an assigned group washes up, scouring the black greasy pans with steel wool in dirty lukewarm water. The more senior boys tease the younger ones, asking them to perform impossible tasks such as stirring water to stop it 'burning', buying black and red striped paint from an outlying general store, or fetching impossible gadgets, such as left-handed hammers and 'skyhooks', which hang down from the sky to allow you to hang up your clothes ! During the afternoon, we hike through a bush scarred with old mine workings, avoiding the open shafts. We try to identify the wildflowers whilst still walking at a brisk pace. We return to camp tired but relaxed, with those not on duty playing quoits or a type of Indian volleyball using a rubber quoit, called Sepa Ruga. Dinner is not too different from lunch and we don't linger, in keen anticipation of the campfire, the highlight of the weekend. We sing many songs and rounds and the bush envelops us in a protective embrace. We are drawn to each other and to the exciting prospects of the life awaiting us. The earth is a beautiful place and we feel part of it. We link hands for a final dedication 'We are climbing Jacob's ladder, Soldiers of the Cross'. Rowdiness returns as we proceed towards the tents. There we find the freedom to discuss things forbidden at home or Sunday School. We are on the verge of puberty or already there, but have been brought up with a 'Victorian' moral code, where natural bodily functions or pleasures are never discussed openly. Our yarns seem to free us from these artificial bonds, reminding us of our awakening bodies and the similar desires of our comrades. Soon, tiredness takes over, and, one by one, the boys drop off to sleep. I am too excited to sleep, with my blankets being tented out by my erect cock. I suddenly realise that Ric, the guy on my left, is the only other guy still awake. We both realise this delicious fact. Then, slowly I feel his arm roll across my blankets, bit by bit, until temporarily braked by the 'resistance' of my alert manhood. He pauses there for a while and then gradually returns his arm, filling my body with fire. But I am gutless - although I want like crazy to do the same to him, my church upbringing takes over and I can't respond, eventually falling off to sleep. Towards dawn, many of us awake freezing, becoming aware of the mosquitoes which have already feasted on our prostrate forms. Ric and I make no mention, then or later, of that surprising mind-blowing incident. The scoutmaster makes a strident wake up call and we rise to wash, using cold water poured into tin washbasins. Breakfast starts with lumpy porridge and powdered milk, followed by pale scrambled eggs made from egg powder. The toast is burnt, the butter already soft and we scoop jam from giant tins. The meal is redeemed by cups of strong tea. After taking down the tents, re-loading the trek carts and restoring the site to as close to its natural state as possible, we participate in lectures on bushcraft and map reading, as well as in further games. The overall feeling is now one of winding down, with the imminent prospect of returning to our circumscribed daily lives. We find the carts more difficult to control during the downhill return journey and brace ourselves against the road surface with our heavy hob-nailed boots. The town seems different to that which we left the previous day. But, it is we who are different, with the experiences of shared physical hardships, shared singing and shared yarns bonding us together as a select group. We feel that we can positively influence our own lives. _____________________________ Another sexual event occurred soon after at the Scout Jamboree in Sydney, when I was close to 13. Unfortunately, Ric couldn't attend. During one two-hour lunch break, two of the older guys, one a cheeky small guy and the other with the largest cock in the group, spread groundsheets out over the middle of the tent floor, stripped naked and the smaller guy started jacking off the other guy, climaxing with a spurt of 'spunk' half the length of the tent. We were all getting very excited during this and I finally asked Macka, the guy lying down next to me, if I could feel his cock and he mine. He agreed with alacrity and it was a lovely warm feeling opening my body to a guy for the very first time and also feeling his urgent erectness. As Ric took the technical stream at high school and I took the academic stream in preparation for university, we saw less and less of each other. He went on to become an air pilot and I went to Canada and the US to pursue graduate studies. It turned out that Dad and Ric's father were close friends. One day in Boston in the early 60's, I got a letter from Dad in which he said in shocked tones "Ric is a homosexual and is living with someone. His father is devastated". Imagine the stress on a gay relationship in a small provincial city in Australia in the early 60's!!!!! I stayed on in Boston for a couple of years more, working in a consulting engineering practice. Towards the end of that time, I got another significant letter from Dad. Ric had died crashing his small plane, and suicide was suspected. Ric, I want to cry for you. You dared try to realise your true self where it was impossible for your actions to be accepted. Your open desire and guts enabled you to reach out to me in the tent and attempt to help me recognise my kindred feeling with you. You were an early martyr to intolerance and bigotry. I salute you. In my 20's, I studied in Boston and, in retrospect, had one or two close friends with whom I was in love. I refused to consciously recognise that at the time. Thus, when I observed two young guys travelling together, I thought they were just mates!! Anyway, when my studies were complete, I left for home via ship. Ship voyages are notorious for producing surprises. DELICIOUS SHOCK It was February 1961, I was 24yo and had just completed a Masters degree at MIT in Boston. I was on my way home to Melbourne via Europe and Asia. Those were the days of travel by ship, and I booked a passage from New York to Naples. I was in a quite comfortable 4-berth cabin, but didn't strongly connect with any of the guys there. I was still a virgin sexually – except for some playing around in Boy Scouts. Also, I had no knowledge about homosexuality and perceived myself as straight, despite being very shy around girls. We had a table tennis table at home and I always enjoyed playing. I was in the table tennis area during our first day on board and a friendly looking guy asked me if I would like a game. His name was Michael, he was a New Yorker and was travelling with a friend to Europe. His friend seemed to just sit around and didn't join in. Anyway, Michael and I had some exciting close games together and agreed to play more often during the journey. It turned out that he was 25yo and his buddy 31yo. Michael had lovely eyes and a great vitality. I enjoyed all my games with him. After each game when we changed ends, I took the chance to quickly spread my right arm across his shoulders in appreciation. It seemed a natural thing to do and I enjoyed touching him. We generally had our meals together and his mate was always there but was a less outgoing person. I learnt that they were going on to Rome after just 1 night in Naples. I wanted to spend 3 nights there, seeing Pompeii, the Archaeological Museum and the thermal regions. Anyway, we agreed to meet up in Rome and I gave them the address where I had booked to stay. We arrived in Naples a day late due to being caught in a fierce winter Atlantic storm. The ship pulled into its berth in the early morning. I packed my belongings together and waited and waited for Michael and his friend to come upstairs from their 6-berth cabin. The ship started emptying and there was still no sign of them. Finally, I decided to go below to investigate, my steps echoing in the empty corridors. When I arrived at their cabin, the door was shut and I knocked but got no response. I decided to open it, and entered. There they were, alone, spreadeagled across the lower bunk, head to toe and stark naked. I now realise that they were in the classical 69 position and were finally able to get some private time alone together in their 6-berth cabin. They did not seem to be embarrassed. I was shocked out of my mind and literally fled off the ship. However, nature has its own rules. That night, in my single hotel room, I jacked off as never before. When I finally arrived in Rome, there was a friendly message from them, asking for us to meet up. It was all too much for me – I didn't follow up their invitation. Looking back, I can see that my life would have turned out quite differently if I had responded. I found Michael very attractive and my desire would have probably surfaced if we had been alone together. There is not much point in having regrets. After all, our beautiful daughter would never have been born if I had decided then to live a gay life. The final story was generated via the Internet. When I entered our local gay chat room I found a new guy there and we started chatting. It turned out that he was down in our area from Sydney to be with his mother to attend the funeral of his father. His father had died suddenly and he was devastated that they had never had the chance to talk man to man. As we chatted, a sort of transference started to occur and he started perceiving me as his father. This gave a special, very powerful quality to our chat. In this message to him, I also took the chance to express my views about gay love. We have corresponded quite a bit since then, but have never met, as he prefers younger guys. I wonder if any of you reading this have had the occasional chat where the words seem to flow and type themselves? – it's awesome. A BRUSH WITH BEAUTY Why does the perception of beauty sometimes reduce us to tears? Tears are building in my eyes as I write this. It's partly because we are profoundly grateful and feel undeserving. Perhaps it's also because beauty is so rare that we try to hold on to it when it comes our way. But, in the deepest parts of our soul, we are forced to realise that beauty is fragile and transient. This is often very hard to bear; hence the tears continue flowing. Quoting the great Indian mystic Rabindranath Tagore "Do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way". I cite this excerpt not because I am strong, but because I am weak, often wanting to 'possess' beauty. It is shit hard to pass it by. In particular, when we are under the power of the perception of beauty in the soul of another human being!! I experienced 'a brush with beauty' two days ago. I am writing this note to calm my heart, which is close to bursting. It was a random meeting on the Internet, where the conventional wisdom says "Beware!!" He came across initially as a well-mannered guy, as well as funny. It just seemed natural to continue chatting, one to one. I soon found myself in this amazing situation, where he was able to clearly express a thought which I at the same time was still groping towards. He kept supplying extra 'notes' to enrich each harmony. These thoughts came from his deepest being, and my spirit and feelings responded in unison. My heart first ached when he spoke of a recent tragic event in his life and his current state of vulnerability. However, as our chat progressed, my heartache started to lift as I realised that he had the inner strength to transcend his grieving. He was still responsive to the beauty in the world and to the healing balm of nature. My heart rejoiced to see the hope emerging through the pain. I gave thanks for his compassion. In the early stages of a friendship, we are usually full of questions as a means of understanding each other better. However, with him, his comments at times so pierced my mind that I was transfixed, bathed in the moment. I said to him "It's great to be quiet together". When he answered simply "It is", a thrill went through my heart. I felt like kissing him, but kept this thought to myself. How did my body respond to this 'communion' with the deepest part of the soul of another guy? I am not ashamed to say that my body became more warmly charged as our trust increased. It was not that I saw him as a sexual object. Rather, the deepening communion of our souls was giving my body unmistakable signals that 'legitimised' the lifting of the usual constraints. The communion of mind and soul was transformed into that most potent of mixtures, the communion of mind, soul and body. This communion embraced the world, as well as the two of us. I saw it as an unsolicited gift from the 'world soul' to two human beings whose hearts were open. The next morning I sent him two messages and looked for him on-line without success. Then, I left for my planned two-day trip, knowing that e-mail contact with him would be very difficult. Tough!! Warm thoughts of him accompanied me all the way. Towards the end, I sensed that I must immediately counter any tendency to become obsessive. I steeled myself to imagine that he may not reply to my messages. I steeled myself to renounce any idea of having influence over him as a result of our deep conversation and the revelation of his current vulnerability. At the same time, nothing could erase in my heart and mind the special quality of what we had shared the previous night. My soul was calmed. During last night, thoughts of him came unbidden into my mind like stray chords of music. This morning, my host allowed me to read my e-mail via his computer. Imagine my happiness to find a strong, appreciative message from him. True, he didn't want to meet me face-to-face at this point. Our conversation had a special symbolic meaning for him, and I perceived that he felt stronger if it remained symbolic. It is still tantalising that now he is so near, but later he will be so far away. He gave me so much during our time together - how can I not accede to his request? I could not tell him this, as I wasn't able to reply to his e-mail on my host's computer. I hope he will know in his heart that I am inwardly bound to respect his wishes. I am not a 'saint'. If I were, I would be profoundly satisfied with such brushes with beauty. They energise me for other creative activities in my life. At the same time, I crave the fullest sharing of mind, soul and body. These days, it is easy to share our bodies to achieve the rising excitement, climax and delicious satiation during a sexual encounter. I enjoy it and do not belittle it in any way. By exposing our naked need and resulting vulnerability to another guy, and remaining conscious of his reciprocal need even when our own need becomes increasingly pressing, we are practising a sort of love. In this way, honour is preserved, also when we are intimate with more than one guy. My ultimate craving is for something more. I would like to share everyday activities in the spirit of love. When his hand finely cuts up the garlic, I will caress it. After he plays a beautiful passage on his musical instrument, I will kiss his hands. When he mentions his efforts in visiting guys suffering from Aids, I will embrace him. When he is walking through the bush in front of me, I will observe the delicious gyrating of his butt and move forward and grasp it! He will respond to me similarly. Clothes will usually be superfluous. We will share both our erectness and our limpness, the inevitable rise and fall. As we open our souls to each other, our bodies will joyfully open and be filled with wonder. Rather that regarding 'having sex' as a discrete act, intimacy will pervade our every moment. We will thank whatever spirit is enabling us to grow in love. Tears will return, this time, tears of joy. There seems to be no moral reason why we may not experience this love with several persons. However, in practice, the level of commitment implied sets a limit on how thinly each can spread his physical and spiritual resources. At the same time, the wider sharing process will be directly energising! Now, my dear friend-to-be, I address you directly. I have no idea where our friendship will lead. We may never meet if that remains your wish. The beauty that each has generated in the other remains. Beauty and love are not 'zero-sum' games - there is not a fixed 'supply' of love to be carefully apportioned - the more we give, the more we keep receiving. I sense that we were 'fated' to meet on-line the other night. The experience was incredibly refreshing for me. I hope you gained from it as well. I also hope that we can devise ways to continue to share our deep feelings, our love of music, our love of nature. With rapport on the deeper things, let lightness take over! John